


fool of the empire

by maisiedaisies



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Eating Disorders, F/F, F/M, Fame, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Modeling, OOC, Out of Character, Recovery, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, Stiles Stilinski has an Eating Disorder, Will add tags as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-08-09 01:59:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7782478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maisiedaisies/pseuds/maisiedaisies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em> There was a time when he would’ve been proud of himself at the visible progress. At this point, however, he doesn’t even know if losing weight is a good thing or a bad thing. It would be so much easier to be a girl, especially in this industry, because at least they don’t have to bulk up with an unrealistic set of muscles. If he doesn’t eat, his arms become stringy and lanky, and if he eats too much, they become doughy and soft. He’s spending almost all of his free time with his personal trainer now, and it still isn’t enough. Stiles loathes what he sees in the mirror. </em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everybody! This is my first Sterek fic, and my first work in the Teen Wolf fandom. As I'm not too fond of the show itself, moreso the characters, I think if I were to write any more fics in this fandom, I would do au's as well. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I have extremely little knowledge or experience in the fashion/modelling industry, as well as eating disorders, which is a huge theme of this story. I want to make this as realistic as possible, so if anyone has knowledge of it, please feel free to comment! It would help me out so much! Google can only take me so far (: 
> 
> That being said, I hope everyone enjoys this story!

“Mr. Stilinski, you’re needed on set in about ten minutes,” An intern of some sort comes striding into his dressing room, armed with a clipboard. She looks frazzled, just like everyone else in the vicinity does. They’re all on a very rigid time schedule, with absolutely no wiggle room.

“We’re just about wrapping things up here,” The stylist working on him says, not even sparing a glance at the other employee. Stiles catches her eye in the mirror and mouths a quick _thank you_ , earning himself a small smile as she exits.

As the stylist tugs on his hair with a comb, he observes his own reflection in the mirror. He’s lost a bit more weight recently, probably helped by the fact that he hasn’t eaten in three straight days. Any bodily change is evidenced by his almost complete lack of clothing. There was a time when he would’ve been proud of himself at the visible progress. At this point, however, he doesn’t even know if losing weight is a good thing or a bad thing. It would be so much easier to be a girl, especially in this industry, because at least they don’t have to bulk up with an unrealistic set of muscles. If he doesn’t eat, his arms become stringy and lanky, and if he eats too much, they become doughy and soft. He’s spending almost all of his free time with his personal trainer now, and it _still_ isn’t enough. Stiles loathes what he sees in the mirror.

And while some celebrities can pull off the trendy look of violent insomnia, he isn’t one of them. The first thing stylists do when they see him for the first time is smudge color-correcting concealer underneath his eyes, an area that bleeds purple more and more with each passing day. He’s constantly getting lectured by his publicist about how important his appearance is. A magazine pointed his bags out only the other day in a rather nasty article and took it upon themselves to psychoanalyze just about every stressor in his life that may be contributing to his alleged sleeplessness. The more he thinks about it, the more frustrated and self-conscious he feels, like there’s bugs crawling underneath his skin.

Because he sleeps. Of course he does. Before his very existence blew up in social media, he was known to be a heavy sleeper, always staying in bed for much longer than what was deemed acceptable. Unfortunately, now, he isn’t given the same sort of luxury with his hectic schedule, but he does sleep almost a decent amount. The problem is that the exhaustion that resides in him isn’t shallow or easily fixed. Some days it feels like it’s embedded in his bones, like he needs doctors to cure it instead of a stylist or his publicist.

Stiles needs a long break, most definitely. It just feels like there’s never a good time to squeeze one in.

“Alright,” The stylist pats him on the back, quick and impersonal, “’M all done. You look great, and don’t touch your face.” He sounds distracted. The voices coming from the set down the hallway grow louder as people begin to prepare for the shoot, adhering to the time limits set in place as well.

“Thank you,” Stiles says to him, who raises a hand in acknowledgment before shutting the door behind him. The man’s obviously in a huge hurry, as though preparing someone for a photoshoot is an ordeal rather than what he signed up for. He just hopes the stylists’ work isn’t flawed because he was rushing.

Stiles finds the door leading to his destination easily enough; it’s propped open and clearly labelled. His eyes take a few seconds to adjust to the blinding lights that assault him upon entrance, but the aspirin he popped a few minutes ago should ward off any potential headaches that might come as a result.

There’s an array of equipment lined up, from sound and lighting devices to flimsy chairs and an assortment of untouched food, and he heads to his designated chair off to the side to take a sip of bottled water.

“Mr. Stilinski, it’s a pleasure to have you here,” The accented photographer comes up to shake his hand. His grip is firm, “My name is Cael, please tell me at any time if you have any concerns. I’m in charge of this whole production today.”

He gestures dramatically at all of the fixtures and people milling around.

“Will do. Thank you for having me,” Stiles chews at the inside of his cheek. Formalities are a pain, and unfortunately just about 99% of his interactions with people are small talk these days. Fake interest and fabricated emotions, relying solely on cues and manners instead of saying what’s really on his mind. It’s gotten to point where all he wants at the moment is to have a meaningful conversation with someone, anyone.  

As far as shoots go, this one isn’t too bad. It’s definitely a bit risqué, especially since it’s for Calvin Klein, but it’s nothing that he isn’t used to or uncomfortable with. Cael’s more encouraging than critical, praising him every time he gets a good shot and clicking away frantically. Occasionally, he’ll let him look at some of the pictures on the monitor. They end on a positive note, but by the time Stiles gets out of the building, the world around him is dark again. He’s spent almost the entire day inside.

His driver’s waiting for him, taking one long drag of his cigarette before dropping it and scraping the ashes with his polished foot. Jensen’s a nice enough person, but he’s intimidating as hell. Luckily, Stiles gets on with him pretty well. They have a secure relationship going, with a lot of late-night driving and rescuing Stiles from various clubs. Jensen’s seen him trashed more than anyone else, probably. There’s a lot to drink away and not enough time to do so.

Fortunately, he’s learned by now how to keep that side of his life private and stowed away from paparazzi and fans.

Stiles reaches his apartment okay enough, turning on the TV for some background noise before shuffling to the fridge. Even though this place cost a shitload of money, he isn’t too crazy about his home. It feels more like a gallery or a museum than something he’s supposed to live in. The sofas are stiff and hard, and each appliance is probably quadruple the size it’s supposed to be. Every surface is so fucking _shiny_ , too, like someone came in and greased everything.

Wait.

He checks his calendar by the whiteboard, and shakes his head when he realizes that Laurie, the cleaning lady, was in fact here today. Which explains why the cushions are organized so perfectly on the sofa, why everything is in a state of unnatural cleanliness. He’s also glad to see that she helped herself to the fridge, something that was encouraged from the very beginning of her being hired. She’s got a deadbeat husband who fucked off years ago, and three kids who go hungry often because there’s only one source of meagre income in their household. Stiles pays her almost twice as much as what she requires, but it still isn’t enough to live comfortably in this expensive city.

He sits on one of the barstools for a moment, looking out over the skyline sprawled in front of him. The view isn’t spectacular, as he’s not quite famous enough to get a penthouse or anything, but it’s still beautiful. He can see lots of roofs and lights, but also the contrast of people walking on the sidewalks below. Sometimes, he sits on his balcony and tries to listen in on conversations occurring below him. Voices carry.

It’s looking to be one of those nights, too. He feels lonely and dead tired, and his stomach keeps making itself known. Stiles is often busy enough to distract himself from eating, little free time naturally comes with his profession. But times like this, sitting in his kitchen with nothing to do, is almost torture. He just wants to eat curly fries, and he hates himself for the cravings. Luckily, his fridge is now bare of temptation. Going grocery shopping would be far too much work.

He calls Scott, just to have something to occupy his mind.

“Stiles!” His best friend sounds pleasantly surprised. He can hear commotion in the background, but it melts away as he seems to move to another room and close the door, “How’re ya doing, buddy?”

Scott is full of enthusiasm and optimism and innocence and Stiles is envious. There was a time when he was like that too, when the world was at his feet and he had a million open doors in front of him to choose from. But even though he himself was able to select what seemed like the most appealing door at the time, it feels more like a coffin than a room. Meanwhile, Scott’s in a fucking meadow of happiness and sunshine, or something. Whatever. Stiles was never good at poetic things.

“I’m doing well,” Stiles closes his eyes, popping an aspirin dry, “How is it over there?”  

“It’s pretty good, all things considered,” Scott sounds mellow, like he does when he’s been lying in the sun for a while, “We’re experiencing a heat wave, you know. It’s driving Allison nuts.”

“I can imagine,” He decides to sit on the kitchen floor, so he can put his back against one of the cabinets, “And how’s my dad?”

His dad’s heart in particular is what worries him, especially now that Stiles isn’t there to enforce good eating habits. He lives on the other side of the country and most of his life is spent in planes, travelling from one city to another. There’s not exactly enough room in his schedule to check up on the Beacon Hills sheriff, and it’s exhausting. Once upon a time, he viewed travelling and private jets as an added bonus to the overall allure of this job, but now it’s more of a chore.

“Your dad’s all good, Stiles,” Scott confirms, with a hint of teasing to his tone, “He’d be better if you visited, though. That house is way too big for just one man.” Of course it is, because there’s supposed to be children and a wife squeezed in there as well. It’s a family home, not a bachelor pad.

Stiles groans and stares at the ceiling. He _could_ come home, if he really wanted to. He has the next two days off, even from his workouts. Except, he won’t, because reasons. Reasons that look like scruff and black hair and green eyes and start with D-E-R and end in A-L-E.

“I just visited,” He says, instead of voicing his thoughts out loud.

“You visited six months ago.”

“Yeah, well. My job’s starting to pick up a bit. I barely have any days off anymore.”

“I know!” Scott pounces on this subject change, and his shoulders slump in relief, “I feel like I see you everywhere, man. Seriously. You’re in high demand.”  

It’s true. Stiles isn’t quite sure how he’s become such a public figure so quickly, especially since there really isn’t anything spectacular about him. It all originally started with modelling on the side to pay the expenses of college courses and his shitty apartment, but then his career snowballed almost before he could realize what was happening. He was seen partying with a gaggle of the Kardashians, and then he was papped with Selena Gomez, and the rumors and fame just escalated from that point onwards. Now he has just over twenty million followers on Twitter and he really does hate himself for making a correlation between followers and self-worth, but. The amount impresses him more than anyone else, probably.

He’s even been able to start working on some projects outside of modelling and fashion shows, like auditioning for roles. His agent Marie told him that he could definitely make it in acting, especially since he’s been described in magazines as ‘quirky’ and ‘entertaining’, labels that usually fit actors or actresses and not models that are supposed to be sexy and mysterious. They’re going to make the transition any day now, she says, and he’s very much on board with the idea. Acting seems like a much more flexible industry, especially since there are many more movies being produced in comparison to popular magazine editions that really only seem to fixate on one or two celebrities before moving onto the next. He’s lucky enough to be an item of interest right now, but it won’t stay that way forever.

There have been other models that have made the same jump. Kate Upton, Uma Thurman, Cameron Diaz. He just hopes he can pull it off.

“I guess,” Stiles muses, “Did I tell you? My agent says that the director of _Nine Yards_ was pleased with my audition.” He didn’t hear this directly, but rather through the grapevine. Whatever. It still counts.

“Congrats, man!” His friend laughs, “See, I knew you could do it. You had zero confidence walking into that audition, but there was no reason to be nervous. I’ve seen you act. You’re good.”

Stiles doesn’t really agree with this assessment, especially since he’s been a bad liar since birth, essentially. He was never able to get away with _anything_ as a kid, and so he doesn’t really know how he’s being viewed as a potential actor. Maybe it’s because acting, to him, is more like slipping into the lives of other people as opposed to trying to sell a story to a gullible audience.

When he was auditioning, he did his absolute best to try and fit the role of Graham Beaumont. Even without the fact that the project was already very much in the public eye and being scrutinized by reviewers and angsty teens alike, Stiles would’ve taken interest in the movie anyways. The plot wasn’t generic by any means. He really does hope he gets the part.

But again, it’s all about luck and reputation. Stiles has been labelled unfairly before by big publications, so it would make sense if the director wanted to go with a safer option to play Graham. Sometimes it’s not so much about talent as it is about politics, and playing it safe.

“Well, we’ll see,” He says, because he doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to say.

“Hey man,” Scott says suddenly, his tone bordering on apologetic, “I know you just called, but my shift’s about to start in, like, five minutes.”

Oh, that’s.

“Okay,” Stiles says, working to keep his voice neutral and free of disappointment. Scott doesn’t do well with guilt _at all_ , and he’d hate to ruin his work performance just because of his own issues, “I better let you go, then.”

“Yeah, but you need to call me more often,” His friend lectures playfully, “I need to make sure you’re not dead in a ditch somewhere, you know?”

“Sounds good, Scott.”

“Bye bro.”

Stiles looks at the clock as sees that only about ten minutes have passed during his and Scott’s little exchange.

He can’t really think of anything else to do, so he picks up the phone again.

“ _Stiles_!” Chace crows, and Stiles would bet almost anything that he’s already out partying, “What’s happening, my man?”

“Are you in New York by any chance?” Stiles bites his lip hopefully. The silence of his apartment is almost deafening. Sitting on the floor is way more alienating than sitting on the chair. It just is.

He wishes the building he lives in was livelier. It feels like he’s the only one actually living in it.

 “Of _course_ I’m in New York,” The actor yells, “I’ll have someone pick you up in ten!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles is drunk. Not plastered or hammered by any means, but drunk enough to forget about his hunger and the loneliness. Additionally, he’s taken a hit or two of _something_ that was being passed around. Chace is hilariously high, laughing that slow cackle that takes over whenever he gets his hands on some quality stuff. There’s also two girls  _hanging_ off of him, draping like curtains. It's understandable. Even though him and Chace are only platonic friends, he can definitely see the appeal.

Women have been coming up to Stiles as well, recognizing him from the magazines, but he’s feeling guys tonight and none of those have approached him yet. He doesn’t want to get too drunk, just in case he gets a lay in, but then again if someone doesn’t come to his rescue soon he’s going to end up drinking himself to death alone.

He turns to a fellow model to talk for a bit. If he remembers correctly, she’s a part of Taylor’s exclusive club that social media is just eating up, but she seems pretty chill. She complains about her manager, and then proceeds to go on her Snapchat and scroll through people’s stories for a while. She takes a video of Stiles at one point, the bright flashlight on her iPhone making him squint, but he laughs and kisses the camera dramatically, his lips taking up the entire screen.

Finally, a suitable guy comes slinking into their group that’s been formed. He’s good looking, and a quick inquiry with the girl next to him confirms that he’s in her agency and he’s single. She doesn’t know much more, but raises her eyebrows a little bit when he seems satisfied.

“You’re Stiles Stilinski,” The man realizes, sitting next to him with a colorful drink in his hand. He seems to not care that his drink isn’t manly, and takes a sip of it like it’s fine wine. It gets Stiles hot for absolutely no reason.

One last checkup is in order, and once he can see that the other model doesn’t hold much of a resemblance to Stiles’ own personal You-Know-Who, he decides to go for it. He’s pretty horny, and he could use some relaxation.

In under an hour, he has him back at his own apartment, and the guy barely has time to compliment the décor before they’re on Stiles’ bed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here you guys go!

Stiles wakes up with a pounding hangover and the smell of breakfast wafting from the kitchen. Which. No. He greatly appreciates the intent behind it, but it’s all wrong. He only wanted a one night stand, and he doesn’t care to be tempted into a fattening breakfast. His self-control is horrible enough as it is.

Thank god, the guy isn’t any sort of culinary expert. Just as Stiles walks into the kitchen with a shirt and boxers on, the meager amount of bacon that was in his fridge gets burned on the pan.

This is a good enough reason for Stiles to not have any, so he just picks at the scrambled eggs and carefully avoids the toast. The guy across from him (Jake? Jared?) is trying way too hard to be nice, obviously hoping to flatter enough into a date, or a second lay. Unfortunately for him, Stiles doesn’t really do commitment, because _reasons_. Even being a part of a friends with benefits arrangement is too much for him. If it’s really good sex, he’ll indulge himself again, but never more than twice. And Jake/Jared from last night didn’t stand out in any way.

Luckily for him, the guest leaves without complaint, something that rarely happens. Stiles goes up to take a shower, hoping that the request to make an exit is clear enough, and when he comes down the kitchen is cleaned and there’s a note on the table. It’s written on one of the pink sticky notes he leaves for Laurie when he needs a specific task done.

_Smile more! (-:_

He has to admit, the handwriting is cute. The guy even wrote his smile with a _nose_.

Stiles looks at the calendar on his phone. Disappointingly, it still shows nothing scheduled for the next two days. He sifts through his email next, which is similarly dry and devoid of any requests or demands. Eventually, he decides to actually change into skinny jeans and a long sleeved shirt, because he may want to go out again tonight.

There’s a knock on his door right as he zips up his fly. He pauses for a second to pray to any divine forces that it isn’t some obsessed fan, an occurrence that’s happened more than once. There was a brief period of time he almost considered moving, because he came home once after a long day to find a complete stranger sitting on his sofa and watching TV. Luckily for him, they got arrested, but he was still shaken enough to sleep at various friends’ apartments for the next two weeks.

He opens the door to find the very set of eyebrows that threw thick brows into popularity. Cara smiles at him before heading into his apartment, with a bag over her shoulder, and Stiles shuts the door without asking. Cara is one of the few people he truly enjoys being friends with. He met her a few months before her modelling career ended and her acting one began.

Even though she became something of a fashion icon on the runway, it’s no secret that Cara dislikes the fashion industry. She’s said in interviews that modelling took her courage away, made her feel hollow and made her hate herself. Stiles thinks that that’s pretty accurate. He never looked at himself and despised everything he saw before.

Then again, he thinks that in his case there were other factors that came into play, to make him this way.

Cara’s life has improved so much since she quit modelling, from what he’s seen. She’s busy now, making it big in a brand new industry and making new friends and connections along the way. She finally has a voice of her own, and she’s using it in the media in order to speak out against injustices. She’s a part of an extensive friend group and she travels around the world and clinks glasses with other socialites. After all, she was born into wealth, and you can see it in every line of her.

They used to be much better friends, when they sometimes landed gigs together and when they went out and partied with fellow colleagues. He was with her when she was suffering from depressive bouts and skin outbreaks and self-hatred. Seeing her in a better place now and maintaining a relationship, Stiles can’t help but feel happy for her. Even if it means that they’ve grown apart since she’s made her career transition.

So it’s somewhat of a surprise to see her now. He thought that she was in London visiting family and friends.

“What’s wrong?” He asks her first, because her face is pinched and she’s tense.

“Annie and I got in a bit of a row,” She rolls her eyes, running a hand through her hair distractedly, “And my parents are on holiday, so I thought I might come and see how my very favorite model is doing.”

Now it’s _his_ turn to roll his eyes, because he’s knows that that title is most definitely saved for one of her closer friends. At least she’s trying to pretend that they’re still partners in crime. And at least he’s finally partaking in a real conversation, something that’s refreshing as an ice cold drink. 

She isn’t watching him though, her eyes focused on his sink, “You don’t cook,” She accuses him. _Ouch_ , “Did you have someone over?”

“Yeah, I was out last night with some others and brought someone home.”

He feels the need to clarify the fact that it was a one night stand, and nothing more. Cara always wanted him to get in a relationship, to have someone to come home to and keep him grounded. He constantly refused her offers to connect him with one of her friends. Love is stupid.

“Interesting,” She observes, her mouth quirking as she turns to look back at him. Suddenly, her demeanor changes, “Right. So. I’ve decided that I’m going to invite myself here, if that’s alright with you. My flat’s being remodeled.”

“That’s fine,” He shrugs. Cara can be a pretty good houseguest when she wants to be, “I actually have today and tomorrow off, if you want to go do something.”

A gasp, “ _Stiles_ has a _break_? Lord have mercy.”

“Shut up.”

“I will not. Also, you really need to make your apartment look like you live in it,” She changes the subject almost faster than he can keep up, touching the metallic vase on his end table, “I’m sorry, but it just looks those exhibit apartments that real estate agents use to impress buyers. There’s no pictures of you or your dad anywhere.”

“I know,” He says sullenly. He’d never excelled at decorating, his room back in Beacon Hills had relied mostly on papers and posters for a homely look. But he couldn’t exactly get his old schoolwork and throw it around his apartment to make it look lived in. He’s at a loss.

Cara branches off to the guest room, unpacking some of her things and making as much noise as possible. As much as he hates to admit it, it feels good to have another presence in his apartment. Stiles takes advantage of her being distracted, and scrolls through his Twitter mentions. He used to tweet things that he thought were funny or interesting, or little tidbits of his thoughts, but now he really only tweets about his endorsements or new projects coming up. As his career’s progressed, there’s been less and less room for individuality.

“Right, okay,” Cara comes back into the kitchen, sitting at the table with him, “Let’s go do something and make a day of it. We could even meet up with a couple people.”

“Maybe,” He entertains the thought, because he’s not really sure if he likes Cara’s friends. Kendall’s alright, probably the most down to the earth out of everyone in her excessive family, and he doesn’t really know Gigi that well but he likes that she has a deep voice and doesn’t try to talk in a high pitched one. That’s one of his biggest pet peeves.

As for her other friends, he doesn’t really know them well enough to make judgments. Many of them are in the acting and music industry, and he's mostly stuck to his own modelling bubble as far as social media goes. 

They decide to go outside and walk around, talking idly about the weather and various projects each of them is involved in. It only takes about an hour before they have to hide inside of an apartment building because the paps have discovered them. Jensen promptly comes to the rescue, and they then decide to go out to lunch.

(Well, Cara decides, and leaves no room for argument)

Fortunately, she directs Jensen to a place that’s notoriously healthy. They sneak in and find a table way in the back, away from any windows.

As Stiles peruses over a menu, thankful for the calorie amount that shows up besides each dish, he can feel himself being looked over. There’s a conversation looming that he absolutely does not want to have, so he successfully evades it for about fifteen minutes as he orders a salad and then goes on Instagram and makes commentary about who posted what. But as their food arrives, he knows that his time is up and he reluctantly puts his phone away.

“How’s life been, Stiles?” Cara already asked this on their walk, but this time the question has more weight behind it and he can tell that she’s serious.

“Pretty good,” He murmurs, sticking a piece of dry lettuce, devoid of dressing, in his mouth. It sticks to his throat going down. He hates himself for eating twice in one day after going days without eating at all. His self-control, again, is shit. And he knows that Cara is probably pleased to have him eating this much, which is even more frustrating.

“How’s your dad?”

He levels her with a look before answering, “Dad’s fine, but California’s in a heat wave right now so he’s probably not too happy about that.”

“When is California not in a heat wave though,” Cara waves her fork around for emphasis, “You’re still looking for roles, right?”

“Yep.”

“How’s that going?”

“About as well as can be expected,” He says wryly, focusing on his salad, “I auditioned for _Nine Yards_ , but I don’t know how it’ll go. I’m kind of a risky casting option, so I don’t know.”

“I think you’re talented enough to get it, all of the politics aside,” Cara dismisses his doubts with a wave of her hand, “I’m so glad you’re starting to get into acting. Maybe someday we could get cast for the same movie. Can you imagine how fun that’d be? We'd be the dream team.”

“You’d probably prank me and I’d always mess up my lines,” He accuses her, watching her laugh.

He really would like to be in a movie with her someday, but not anytime soon. If he were to truly transition to acting, he’d want to be able to find his ground and blossom as an actor by himself, without the guidance of a friend.

Fortunately, before they can get onto deeper subjects, Stiles’ phone rings with his modelling agent’s contact name. He excuses himself for a quick moment, dipping into one of the empty bathrooms.

Apparently, he’s being cast _right now_ for a gig. He’s given the option of skipping, as the shoot itself is not extremely important, but he decides to go anyways just for means of having an escape. His modelling agent briefly expresses remorse for ruining his short break, but he’s thrilled to have escaped Cara’s deepening conversation. There's no possibility of it getting easier, anyways. 

“I’ve got to run,” He says, “They need me for a casting.”

“I thought you got a two day break?” Cara bristles. She hates abandonment, almost as much as Stiles does. It doesn't matter, though, when you have an entire dictionary of friends from all over the globe to substitute for the absence. 

“Plans changed,” He explains apologetically, the unspoken _you know how it is_ underlying his words, “Are you still staying tonight?” She nods.

The casting is for a lesser known publication. It’s a bit of a risk being featured in a magazine that’s so much less popular than the likes of  _Vogue_ or _GQ_ , but right now he’s just thankful that he has an excuse to get away from Cara, as bad as it sounds. He feels like a shitty friend, but even the guilt isn’t enough to get him to have a conversation with her. She always has a way of making everyone feel like they’re the only person in the world, like their problems are of utmost importance, and he doesn’t want any of his own being scrutinized by her. He doesn’t need it, and it would probably cause him to have an anxiety attack of some sort anyways.

The measurements and fittings are torture, the bottled water he's given lukewarm at best, but he still comes out of it at the end of the evening alive and unscarred. By the time he gets back home, Cara’s sitting on his sofa dividing her attention between her phone and the TV. When the door closes behind him, she turns off both devices and faces him, their earlier conversation still obviously in the front of her mind.

“I’m worried about you, Stiles,” He hears, as he sheds off various layers and pulls on sweats and a T-shirt from his dryer. She pats the space next to her, and he sits down, reluctantly facing her because she would smack him otherwise.

“Wh-?”

“You’re not eating.”

As much as he hates it, he understands why she’s so adamant on talking about this. She’s been in his exact position, probably in an even worse one. He remembers when she never ate, when she was losing hairs and having breakouts and was constantly bitter and stressed. The startlingly apathetic behavior was so unlike her, that it was almost a relief to see her leave the industry just so she could find herself again. He knows why she’s upset for him, but he doesn’t _need_ help. He’s doing fine, he was on the cover of _Vogue_ last month and it was a big fucking deal. There was a party for it and everything. He’s going out, having the time of his life. And this next month alone is going to be crazy. He’s been invited to the New York, London, _and_ Milan fashion week. It’s going to mean a lot of travelling and a lot of dieting, but this is his favorite time of year simply for the reason that he gets to be busy constantly.

“I can’t really eat, Cara,” He explains, as though she’s a delicate five years old and hasn’t lived through this situation, “I can’t put on weight.”

“But you haven’t even maintained weight. You’ve lost weight since I saw you last,” She argues, frustrated.

“I’ve got it under control,” He forces himself to look into her eyes, just so she knows he’s serious, “I promise. I have your number, I’ll call you if I ever need any help. You’d be the first person I’d go to, okay? I trust you.”

“I just want you to be fine,” She says, and he nods in acknowledgment, giving her a quick smile before he turns the TV on again. He doesn’t relax until he’s gone to bed.

Cara leaves the next day to go stay with some other friends. He does feel a bit used, like she just visited him so she could give him an intervention, but it’s none of his business. The most important thing on his agenda now is to begin preparing for Fashion Week(s). The only reason Stiles even got to have this two-day break is because these next few weeks are going to be crazy. It’s time to buckle down and focus on work.

 

* * *

 

The frequency of his shoots dwindle over the next couple days as he starts to prepare with others for the first fashion week, in New York. It never ceases to amaze him how many people it takes to pull off this production. There are thousands of them hustling around, trying to make every last detail come together. The transition into the actual show is smooth - everyone just does the same thing more or less, but this time there’s an audience and press is waiting at the doors.

The first couple of hours set an exciting mood for the rest of the show. There’s a billion different slots for different designers, so he has a few short breaks while up and coming artists seize their few minutes of fame. For the most part, though, it’s just work, work, work. A majority of the show is devoted to women, but where there’s menswear, Stiles name dominates. He’s a highly coveted figure right now, and the designers in charge here know this full well and exploit him to the best of their ability. He knows they’re using him more for recognition and press than for the fact that he fits their expectations for male models, but he doesn’t care how he gets a spot on the runway, so long as he does.

It’s absolutely exhausting work. Stiles is at the venue before the sun rises almost every day, because even if he isn’t walking in a time slot his management wants him making connections, hopefully to get invited to the designers’ more private shows in the future. So he schmoozes, and circles around socialites like he was born to do it, grateful that a makeup artist concealed the color underneath his eyes from lack of sleep. He makes people laugh with his dry humor, makes them feel special when he talks about their work. He's done his research, he knows what he's doing. 

There are copious amounts of after parties and celebrations, and he takes care of his reputation, nursing only one or two glasses of wine and being polite to absolutely everyone in the vicinity. Pictures of him with Cara when she came over have surfaced on news sources, and as a result some of Cara’s old employers ask after her. He’s loathe to admit it, but her timely visit probably gave him more publicity and more of an advantage this fashion week.

Almost the minute the show in New York ends, Stiles’ put on a private jet for London. He tries to catch up on z’s most of the flight - all of the models have lost precious beauty sleep - and gets only a second to orient himself after the flight before he’s carted off to the next venue to start anew. It’s when the preparatory fittings start that he realizes he hasn’t properly eaten in days, and he feels lightheaded.

Bella, Gigi’s sister, is here for the London Fashion Week as well, and it’s something familiar so he sticks close to her. The two of them are often linked in the media because of their mutual friends. She's lost weight recently, and he compliments her for it no matter how much the words try to stick to his tongue. 

Stiles gets through all of his shows without disaster, riding his adrenaline high through each one and crashing into a bone-tiredness afterwards. He collapses in his hotel bed each night, too wrung out to even try and find a good lay. It’s a known fact that models’ sexual activity goes through an uptick each September. Normally, that scene would be Stiles’ forte, but right now it feels like he’s coming down with something. He’s really fucking tired and lightheaded and he’s ravenous to the point that he feels nauseous, so much so that even when he does try to take on a muffin at breakfast one day, he throws it up. In between shows, he can nibble on some carrots or celery if he’s lucky, but that’s about the extent of it.

Almost as soon as the second fashion week begins, it ends. Luckily, this time it’s a shorter flight from London to Milan, but the downside is that Stiles doesn't get to have a nap. He instead talks with the few unlucky souls who can’t sleep on planes, and they obsess over every detail from the past week, including food eaten (or lack thereof), mistakes that may have been made, and news stories that came of all of it. It’s, in a way, therapeutic. 

Milan Fashion Week is always the craziest, and this year it’s the last one he’s doing. Unfortunately, he didn’t get invited to the one in Paris, with a majority of the shows honing in on women's fashion, but he supposes there will be other opportunities. Besides, he doesn’t even like cheese or snails.

Stiles turns his focus to this upcoming couple of days. He just has to get through this last leg before he can go back home and take a proper rest. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles does mention his sudden illness to his management on the phone when the plane lands, but it takes a backseat to the immediate tasks at hand. There’s a complication in one of the shows he’s in - on the very first day - and it throws everyone into frenzy. Tensions are already running high, and his modelling agent begs him to _just get through this week_ , and then there'll be time to see a doctor if he still feels poorly. It’s crucial that he attends all the events and shows for the next few days, so that he gets as much good press as possible.

Despite this, he’s starting to slow down. Even the occasional speedbomb or pill can’t keep him functioning efficiently. By the fourth day, Stiles hasn’t eaten in almost a week save for some raw vegetables, and he hasn't gotten a chance to drink something the entire morning. Every time he requests a bottled water, the assistant runs off and then never comes back, presumably distracted with a much more important task.

It’s right before his show, and people are just finishing with his final fitting. Stiles’ the twelfth due on the runway, and it feels like he’s about to die. He can’t breathe without feeling dizzy and he’s so faint it’s hard to think. Every time someone talks, he's unable to register it unless he really concentrates. The only thing he remembers  is his makeup artist expressing concern over his complexion, but the problem was easily fixed with foundation.

Right before Stiles is about to go on, he realizes. There’s no way he’ll be able to walk the entirety of the runway without passing out. It’s hard enough for him to stand in place as it is, and the last thing he wants to do is faint in front of thousands of people. He grabs the designer, who’s just about to check him over to make sure he’s fitted properly.

“I can’t go,” Stiles murmurs, words slurring together. His heart is fluttering in his chest and it feels like he’s about to have a panic attack or collapse.

“Mr. Stilinski, are you alright?” She looks concerned, pulling him out from the lineup with manicured hands. He can see other people looking at him with worried expressions, and in a couple of seconds there’s a few more surrounding them.

He passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> only constructive criticism please!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry guys, life got crazy and I kind of forgot about this work. Will be updating less frequently, but I hope you guys can stick with me!

When he wakes up, he’s in an unfamiliar room. It takes him a moment or two to realize that he’s hooked up to machines of all sorts, and that there’s tubes in his nose. There’s also something on his finger, keeping track of his pulse he assumes, and a bracelet on his wrist labeling him as a patient. He’s even in a hospital gown, something that is definitely not couture.

Stiles looks around and realizes he must be in an Italian hospital room, because the signs are written in Italian and there’s even a small Italian flag by the window. He sighs and leans back. His stomach feels sort of full, a sensation he hasn’t experienced in a long time.

“You’re so fucking stupid,” Someone comes out of his room’s bathroom, which he’s pretty sure is not allowed. It’s Cara, of all people. Cara, who he had just assured was completely fine less than a month ago. He cringes inwardly. 

She isn’t done, “‘I’ve got it under control. I’ll call you if I ever need any help’,” She recites angrily, “Stiles, why the _fuck_ didn’t you call me? You _passed out_ , and if you had gone on the runway you would’ve fainted in front of a million people.”

“I know,” He winces, because he doesn’t even want to _think_ about that right now. Doesn’t want to think about how close he came to becoming the next trending joke, “How’d you get here?”

“I was in Milan,” Cara huffs, “Because I thought I’d be nice to surprise a bunch of you guys after your shows. So imagine my surprise, when I hear that you’ve fainted behind stage from dehydration and malnourishment and you’ve been hospitalized as well.” It sounds especially bad coming from her.

“I’m sorry, Cara,” He rasps, noticing a cup on a tray next to his bed and taking a sip of the ice water, “I really was trying to get help. I felt ill so I told my management that I needed a doctor, but they said it would be best to wait until I could finish up in Milan and get home.”

She sighs, “Stiles, you should’ve put yourself first. This is serious. You’re so underweight that they’re not even letting you leave the hospital until you’ve put on a few pounds, so that they know you’ll be okay enough to fly back to New York.”

Shit.

Next, “I told your dad,” says Cara, as though this isn’t horrifying news.

“You _what_?”

“I had to, Stiles!” She gestures wildly, “Your management was going to anyways, so I just decided it would be easier coming from me than them. They're giving you a choice, to either do an inpatient rehabilitation program in a place just outside of the city, or to live with somebody and be a part of an outpatient program. Your management and agent are behind it, the doctors, too.”

This is, most likely, one of the worst things he’s ever heard. “I don’t need this,” Stiles moans, covering his face with his hands to hide the fact that he’s really going to start crying any minute, “This is going to fuck everything up. Has anyone else heard about this besides the people that were there?”

The look Cara gives him says it all, and he covers his face again, “Oh god.” His voice cracks. His whole body feels numb, like it always does right before a major freak out. He’s in so much shit, and his heart monitor speeds up. 

“I’m sorry,” Cara says sympathetically, because they both know this is going to destroy his reputation, or at least deface it. He’s not going to get cast for movies or projects anytime soon, that’s for sure, “They were going to put you in rehab for drug usage as well, once they found amphetamine in your system. I think your agent was able to convince them that you were only using it to get through the shows, because of your symptoms.”

“Yeah,” He confirms, his voice wobbling dangerously.

“Stiles…”

“Don’t,” Stiles manages, “It’s fine, Cara. It was going to happen anyways. I’m just glad I got through most of my shows this month before it happened, I guess.” He tries to pretend like he’s not crying, but unluckily for him, Cara’s never been one to ignore emotions.

“Hey,” She moves her chair closer to him, and leans her head on his shoulder, “It’s going to be okay, Stiles. As much as it doesn’t seem like it right now.”

She sits with him for hours, until the sun goes down.

        

* * *

 

Stiles stays in the hospital for another week. His dad calls him every day, and he’s absolutely furious with him at first, for not telling him sooner, for being so stupid and putting his life in danger, for prioritizing everything over himself. When Stiles starts to cry again, he softens up, and it gets better after that.

“I want you to live with me for a while, son,” His father says over the phone. Stiles picks up on the _living with me_ instead of _living with you_ , and immediately, his heart sinks.

“Live with you?”

“Your management’s giving you an extended break. I want you to come back to Beacon Hills, son. Your friends are so worried about you, have been since you started losing weight a few months ago. And now it says you’ve been hospitalized in the news, and everyone just wants you to come home. They’ve wanted you to visit for half a year now.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything.

It’s not the fact that he’s coming home that makes him so scared. It’s the fact that he’s sick, that he needs to be treated, that he needs to live with his father because no one trusts him to live alone, that bothers him so much. It’s alright coming home when he has a successful job, when he’s on top of the world and clinking glasses with famous people, but not so much when he’s a hospital patient, a project to fix.

He’s excited to see Scott, because it really has been too long. And Isaac and Erica, he supposes. Hell, maybe even Lydia and Boyd and Jackson and Allison. There’s just one person that he absolutely does not want to see, preferably for the rest of his life.

“Do I still have to do an outpatient program?” He asks quietly, playing with the frayed ends on his blue gown. Everything he’s worked so hard for is ruined.

“I talked it down to seeing a doctor and a therapist once a week,” His father says, “But if you don’t improve, I’m going to _have_  to put you in the outpatient program, Stiles. I’m worried sick about you, and the only reason I’m not forcing you to do it right away is because I trust you, and I trust that you want to get better.”

“I do, Dad. I do, please,” He’s crying again. He hates himself.

“Okay, son,” The Sheriff’s voice is gentle, “I’ll see you in a week. Be good.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles only gets one hour in New York to pack his things, before he’s on a flight to Los Angeles. He stuffs everything he needs inside of his suitcase, leaves a giant wad of cash on the table for Laurie. It should be enough for her to get through the next few weeks alright. Maybe she’ll be able to buy her kids more clothes for school.

He locks his door and heads to the airport.

Fortunately, they take him to a private part of the airport so he can leave without being papped. Apparently word’s gotten out that he’s going to be recovering for the next few weeks, maybe even months, and Marie’s advised him to try not to be seen in public places. The reward for photos of him has reportedly gone up significantly. They’ve taken his dad to the secluded area as well, and as soon as Stiles sees him he hugs him. With everything that’s happened, he’s glad to see someone that’s familiar and that he trusts.

“You’ve lost so much weight,” The Sheriff comments, trying for casual. When there’s no response, “I’m glad you’re home, kid.”

The drive home is quiet. The Sheriff listens to the radio while Stiles sleeps in the backseat, tired and cold. It feels a bit like he’s being kidnapped when he wakes up, but he’s able to shake off the lethargy after about five more miles and climb in the front seat with his dad.

“So besides everything that happened, how was Fashion Week?” His dad asks. Stiles appreciates him so much for trying to pretend that everything’s okay, despite obvious evidence to the contrary.

“Well, there were three,” Stiles says unsurely, because he doesn’t know how much his dad actually cares. He looks interested though, so he continues, “The first week was in New York, the next week was in London, and then Milan was the last one I was invited to.”

“And that’s when you passed out.”

“Yes.”

“Jesus, that’s a lot of fashion weeks to get through.”

“I know. It was a lot.”

“It was nice of Cara to come and try to surprise you,” The Sheriff likes Cara a lot for some reason, more than any of Stiles’ other friends, “On the phone, she was talking about coming to visit or taking you down to Los Angeles for a day.”

“Sounds great.” At least he has one day to look forward to, in the sea of torture and hell he’s about to endure.

They pull up to the house. It looks fractionally smaller than Stiles remembers, but he supposes that’s to be expected. He carries his luggage up to his old room, taking in all of the clutter all over his walls and desks. He uses the first few minutes to look at past awards and certificates, as well as his telescope, before he unpacks everything and starts putting it away. His style has evolved over the past few years since he left, and it’s weird seeing his old plaid and baggy jeans mix with his new wardrobe of skinny jeans and eclectic shirts.

He’s barely settled before his door slams open. A massive presence engulfs him in a bear hug, and he indulges Scott for a couple seconds before laughing.

“It’s good to have you home!” Scott says, pleased. He’s so grateful that Scott doesn’t look over him, searching for lost weight. His friend looks just as laid back as ever, and it makes Stiles shoulders sag in relief.

“It’s good to be home,” He says honestly, because it’s true. In the couple of hours that he’s been back in California, he’s already felt the weight of his job and reputation leave his shoulders. Here, he doesn’t have any expectations to surpass, any shoots to go to or any partying to do. He’s just Stiles, and it’s relieving to fall back into that easy role. It’s the simplest one he has.

“Since you’re going to be here for a few weeks,” Scott says, “I thought we’d make the most of it. Your dad gave me a paid vacation. I think he wants me to stop working so hard as well.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, because he highly doubts that’s the reason for Scott’s vacation, but he doesn’t say so. He’ll let his dad think he’s being discreet.

“What do you want to do?” He asks instead. His first doctor’s appointment is tomorrow, and he wants to take his mind off of it as much as he can.

“Okay, you can say no if you want to,” Scott says uneasily, sending alarm bells off in Stiles’ head, “But I was thinking we could go get some milkshakes? Or smoothies, if you’re not up to it. Just like old times.”

Stiles takes a moment to think. If he refuses, he knows it’ll make his father and Scott worry even more. And he still has to prove that he _wants_ this, that he wants to get better and to recover, so he doesn’t get sent to an outpatient program or worse, an inpatient one.

He can drink a fucking milkshake.

When they get there, he actually orders a smoothie instead, one that’s almost a third the amount of calories, but it still feels like a victory nonetheless. Scott smiles every time he goes to take a sip, so transparently proud of him that it makes his heart ache. He can do this.

“The others are dying to see you, but they’re not getting vacations,” Scott says smugly, “So I think Lydia and Allison were going to come see you tomorrow with me, if that’s okay.”

“Um, kind of,” Stiles says, moving his straw around in his smoothie, “I have a doctor appointment tomorrow. Probably the first of many. So.” He hates this so much. Hates every second of this. He despises being the one that everyone has to look after and supervise, the one that has to be helped and accommodated for.

“That’s okay,” Scott says, unfazed, “We’ll just come afterwards, then. Text me to let me know when it ends.”

Stiles nods and takes a deep breath, hoping that maybe he’s off the hook, but then Scott pouts a little bit, “I’m sorry that I couldn’t visit you in the hospital.”

“Dude, it was in Italy, it’s fine,” Stiles manages to smile a little bit at him, but the expression still lingering on Scott’s face makes his heart sink.

“It’s not fine though,” Scott says, painfully clumsy with words, “I mean, you’re not fine. And I’m sorry I couldn’t be there when you needed someone the most. But I’m here now, and I want to help you get better, or at least make it easier. I know that not really much of anything can be easy right now, so.”

"Thanks, buddy,” Stiles cuts in to end his spiel, relieved. He’s just glad Scott didn’t try to lecture him in the middle of the café. He would probably lose it.

They go home, and watch movies for the rest of the day on the sofa. Stiles presses a little closer to Scott than necessary, just because he’s glad to have someone who understands the real him so well and still loves him for it. Scott wraps an arm around his shoulders and, yeah, he could probably stay like that forever and just sleep.

His doctor’s appointment the next day is horrible.

The doctor comes in, with charts and figures and percentiles and BMI indexes, and tells him how underweight he is, how he needs to _try_. She’s kind enough about it, like she wants to help him, but he hates everything about it. Because she talks about having three meals a day and exercising in moderation and he just can’t do that.

If he gains weight, becomes doughy and squishy and soft, he can’t model anymore. He won’t even be able to land a small role on a B-rated movie if he’s fat. All of his hard work’s going to go to waste, everyone will look at him and see him as the superstar that went downhill and lost it. His anxiety starts mounting, until he’s just about a second away from having a panic attack. He can’t do this. What was he thinking?

The doctor gives him a moment to gather himself, probably to go find some sedatives in case he starts frothing at the mouth. In that time, he comes up with a half-formed plan. He’s going to quit, and then once he’s out of his current contract with his agency, he’s going to leave the country and find a new modelling agency that’ll take him in despite his issues. None of his friends or his dad will be able to find him. He’ll start over, this time with the acceptance of his eating habits.

The doctor comes back, and she hands him a nutrition plan and a note for his therapist. Then, finally, he’s allowed to leave.

Stiles stumbles to his car, and slinks down low in his seat. He’s parked far enough away, facing some kind of shrubbery, that no one can see him.

Taking comfort in this fact, he starts to cry.

He cries until his throat is raw, pulling at his hair when it gets to be too much. He can’t do this. He can’t just let go of everything he’s worked for, his career, his friends he’s made along the way, his image. He thought, stupidly, that they would just make him put on a little weight so he could go back to his job without dying. Only now he realizes how naïve that expectation was. They want him to fill out, to pack on pounds, and probably be thick enough to pass as a plus-size model.

Stiles is still failing at pulling himself together, attempting to take a few breaths without hiccuping, when someone opens his car door and sits inside.

He freaks out for a good half a second, going through shock and fear and then numb acceptance, when he suddenly recognizes the person in the passenger seat. Oh dear god. He cannot do this right now. This is the very last thing he was prepared for.

Derek Hale looks just as good as he did when he broke Stiles’ heart, maybe even better. He’s more muscular, and his hair’s styled differently. He smells _good_. This right here is the reason he’s stubbornly refused to visit Beacon Hills more than twice a year, why he’s always been so reluctant to go out and about with the others. Whenever they started to bring up Derek, Stiles cut them off, until they got used to skirting around the subject.

He assumed he’d never have to see Derek Hale again, which is probably why his whole body’s acting like it’s been through a trauma of some sort.

“Go away,” Stiles moans, trying in vain to maintain any shred of dignity he may have left. He drags his hands down his face, briefly contemplating ripping out his own eyes when his fingers slide over his eyelids, “Seriously, I can’t do this right now.”

“I saw you walk out,” Derek ignores his pleas, “What’s happening?” Bless him, he probably thinks that the Sheriff died or something. Stiles _so_ does not want to tell him the truth, that the reality is much more pathetic than that.

“Don’t you watch the news?” He tries to catch his breath, but just ends up hiccupping. He’s a pathetic mess, and Derek’s going to hell for walking in on him like this and not leaving.

“I know that you fainted at a fashion show,” Derek says cautiously, “And that you were hospitalized.”

Stiles can’t even tell if that’s really all that’s been said on the news, or if Derek’s just trying to bait him into talking about it. Whatever. He’s going to find out anyways, if he doesn’t already know.

“I’m fucked up, Derek,” He says harshly, running a hand through his hair in agitation. If he thought the conversation with Cara was bad, this is just about a thousand times worse. He’s supposed to be throwing all of his success and wealth in Derek’s face, he’s supposed to be famous and amazing and shit. Not a broken, shriveled up disaster, “Okay? They hospitalized me because I have an eating disorder. And now I’m here, because no one trusts me to live on my own.” It hurts so much to say out loud, like acknowledging how much he’s throwing away.

Derek sits there, all stupid and contemplative, for several minutes while Stiles tries to pull himself together. He decides he’s over this whole situation, and starts wistfully thinking again about his plan to leave the country.

“Do you want me to leave?” Derek finally asks, quietly.

"Yes, please,” Stiles answers. He’s so tired, “I’m sorry. I don’t want anyone to see me like this right now.”

“Okay,” He moves to open the door, sliding out of the seat, “But just to warn you, Lydia invited me over to your house today.”

Of course she did. Because for all anyone else knows, Stiles and Derek had sexual tension and then Stiles left and it was never resolved. Little do people realize there was an actual crisis that occurred, that caused Stiles to go to a college on the other side of the country instead of staying local. He assumed that Derek would tell people that they were dating and that he completely rejected Stiles afterwards for unknown reasons, but of course he should’ve expected him to clam up about it.

“God,” Stiles puts his hands in his face, “Of course she did.”

“I don’t have to go if you don’t want me to,” Derek is a shitty ex. He’s not supposed to be nice. He’s supposed to be arrogant and rude and smug about how much his life has improved without Stiles. Stiles doesn’t _want_ kindness, it’ll only make him feel worse.

“It would just look weird if you didn’t,” Stiles sighs in defeat, his breath still shaky as hell, “Because we can’t have people knowing you broke my heart, right? So.”

“Stiles,” Derek’s voice _cracks_ and no, nope, this is the last thing he needs. Stiles reaches over the console and shuts the passenger door before starting the engine and driving out of the parking lot. He refuses to look at Derek’s stupidly chiseled face any longer than he has to.

       


	4. Chapter 4

He takes advantage of the drive home to clean himself up. Thank god his eyes never stay puffy after he cries, because then it’d be impossible to hide the evidence from the others. By the time he pulls in the driveway, his face is clean and his complexion isn’t a blotchy red anymore. He looks just fine, despite the meltdown he just had.

He texts Scott that he’s home, and that it’s okay to come over now, before heading inside.

Of course, his dad’s seated at the table, drinking coffee and probably waiting for Stiles to come home so he can hear about the appointment.

“How’d it go, son?” He’s the picture of forced casual.

_Just great, Dad. It made me want to leave the country._

“It went about as well as can be expected,” Stiles sighs, taking a deep breath so his voice doesn’t crack, “She gave me a nutrition plan for meals. Here.” He knows that if he cries, his father will consider him even more unstable.

His dad takes it and looks over the small laminated card, seemingly memorizing every word before putting it in a drawer next to the fridge. Stiles sighs in relief. He was worried that the plan would get pinned up on the board or something, where he’d have to see it all the time.

“What else did she say?”

“That I’m underweight,” Stiles says sullenly, “Which I knew. So.”

“She’s just doing her job,” The Sheriff says wisely, before he goes back to nursing his coffee, “Your therapy appointment’s on Thursday, by the way. Don’t forget.”

As if he possibly could.

“Okay, enough of that,” Stiles changes the subject, “Scott, Lydia, Allison, and, um, Derek are coming over if that’s okay with you.” He hates having to ask permission again, like he’s in high school, but it’s just one of the many, many perks of living with the town Sheriff once more. 

“Derek Hale? The one that dumped you?” His dad perks up, because of course he’d commit that name to memory.

“The very same.”

“Then why would you - ?”

“It wasn’t my idea, I swear,” He holds his hands up defensively, “No one else knows we were a thing. Lydia invited him and it’d be suspicious if I didn’t let him come.”

“Especially because he hasn’t seen you since you first left for college,” The Sheriff muses.

“Yeah, Dad.”

He doesn’t say anything else, just turns on the TV, but that’s fine. Stiles goes upstairs and tidies his room as best as he can. Ever since Laurie came into his life, he’s hated sleeping anywhere excessively messy.

By dinnertime, Allison and Scott show up with some kind of salad, clutching it and looking like an aged couple. Allison pecks Stiles’ cheek and Scott hugs him, and they set the large bowl on the table as the Sheriff clears it. Stiles is just glad they didn’t bring any casserole. God forbid. Scott’s always had an affinity for really heavy food, probably has once never spared a thought for all the calories he shovels into his mouth after work.

Lydia arrives next, smiling and hugging him hard before pulling him out on the driveway to help her get the dessert. She volunteered to bring it, and Stiles just prays that she didn’t bake anything excessive because he’s really been through a lot today.

“I made banana bread,” She says in a low voice, bringing out a loaf. Stiles can feel his whole body sag in relief, “I hope that’s okay.”

“Yeah, of course,” He says, shrugging, “I’ll probably only have a slice, but.” Already, the idea of eating it makes him want to gag. Even if it’s not cake or fudge, it’s still sugary fat.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want, but I’d appreciate it if you did,” Lydia says briskly, “It took me, like, two hours to make. I kept messing up. But if you tell anyone that I’ll have to kill you.”

“Fair enough,” He allows himself a small smile.

"Also, Derek’s coming. I invited him,” She says, with a smirk on her face, “I figured that you couldn’t keep avoiding him forever, so I did what we all wanted to do. And I think next week we’re all going to have a barbecue or something. Everyone in the gang.”

Right. The gang. The gang that barely tolerated him while he was still here.

Not that he can exactly blame them. He was obnoxious and talkative and way too smart for his own good. There’s some qualities about himself that he misses having, but others that he’s glad he dropped. Like the ADHD. He was lucky to grow out of that one; after that doing shoots and interviews were a hell of a lot easier to handle. The disorder alone was probably annoying for everyone to try and tolerate when they were all in high school together. He hates to think about what he must’ve been like in class.

“Uh, sure,” He says reluctantly, opening the door for her as she carries the intrusive bread into the house, “The gang.”

Lydia used to _hate_ it when Jackson called their dysfunctional friend group the “gang”, and was even more irked once the term caught on with everyone else. Now it seems like she’s come to accept it and even use it in conversation, if only ironically. It’s weird.

Right as they’re about to shut the door, Derek pulls up in his car and hops outside, bringing along with him a giant ass watermelon. It looks like a watermelon on steroids. Really, Stiles has to blink to make sure he isn’t imagining it. It’s a pretty big melon.

“ _Derek_ ,” Lydia lectures him before he’s even crossed the threshold, “I asked you to bring food. This isn’t food.”

“This is food,” Derek says stubbornly. He briefly glances at Stiles.

Stiles isn’t an idiot. He knows that Derek did this for his own benefit. Watermelon isn’t that many calories, as it’s mostly (duh) water. He’s grateful for the good intent behind the gesture, even if Lydia’s going to be crabby about it for the rest of the night. The girl can deal.

The Sheriff goes upstairs, presumably to watch the TV he’s installed in his own room. At the time, Stiles just saw this as an excuse to be lazy, but now he’s exceptionally grateful that he can just hang out without his dad sending him significant looks the entire night. The man’s not half as subtle as he thinks that he is.

Derek cuts up his watermelon into cubes, while Allison dishes out the salad into individual plates and Lydia heats up her loaf in the microwave. Stiles notices that Allison gives everyone an extremely small portion, so much so that it’ll be obvious if someone takes seconds or thirds but not if someone sticks to just one serving. He smiles at her when she looks to him for approval. It’s a good thing that she has enough tact to compensate for what Scott lacks.

As they all sit down and start to chat, Stiles reflects on just how weird this whole situation is. Two weeks ago, he was walking in Milan Fashion Week, on top of the world, and now he’s in his childhood kitchen in the middle of nowhere, California. It’s just strange how fast everything can change.

He wonders if Cara’s okay, if he possibly scared her off with everything that he put her through. It took her months to remember his existence when he was in New York and on the news. How can she possibly keep up with him now?

“Stiles?” Lydia says impatiently, poking him with her fork.

“ _Ow_ ,” He hisses. For a second, he has to check to make sure that she didn’t break skin, “What?”

“I was _talking_ ,” Lydia rolls her eyes, “About Chace Crawford.”

Oh, dear god.

“What about Chace?”

“ _What about Chace_ ,” Lydia mimics him, pointing an accusatory finger across the table, “You’ve slept with him, right?”

“ _What_?” Stiles is very thankful he doesn’t have food in his mouth, or else he would’ve choked on it, “Um, no. He’s straight, Lydia.” Chace is a woman’s man, through and through. He would know.

“See, I don’t think anyone’s _completely_ straight,” Lydia says primly, depositing watermelon cubes next to her second serving of salad, “Maybe there’s a reason he’s been single for so long. He’s only gone after girls.”

“I hate this conversation.”

“And I hate that you don’t have an interesting love life, _Stiles_ ,” Lydia hisses, stabbing the watermelon particularly violently, “I’m supposed to be the one you tell all of your romantic bullshit to before the rest of the world finds out. But you’ve given me _nothing_.”

This is the opposite of true. Stiles told her about the disaster with Piero. Piero was a foreign model, very beautiful and very full of himself. Their brief relationship lasted all of three weeks before he realized he hated dating and he hated the man he was dating.

“I told you about Piero,” He points out, taking a bite of lettuce and grimacing at all of the dressing. He wasn’t used to it.

“Piero does _not_ count,” Lydia scoffs, “What a stupid, arrogant bastard. Didn’t he like, always look at himself in the mirrors at your apartment?”

Stiles had shown her all the screenshots of his and Piero’s texts, from the Italian’s sickening use of emojis to the breakup where Piero sent a picture of himself crying to make him feel guilty. The relationship could probably be safely classified as a failure.

“Yep,” He confirmed, “He also needed ‘me-time’ every morning. He said he would get ready in my bathroom, but he would come out looking no different than before. I think he was just looking at his reflection.”

“Oh my god, if you did that I would never forgive you,” Allison hits Scott lightly on the arm. They’re stupidly adorable together, even if they’re relationship has been historically inconsistent.

“Piero was stupid and should be forgotten forever,” Lydia decides, “But then you never even tried dating anyone after that. Now you have a permanently bad idea about what dating’s really like. Wasn’t that your only relationship?”

Derek looks at him, his gaze unreadable.

"Yep,” Stiles fibs awkwardly, looking back to Lydia.

“But you’ve had sex, right?” Allison asks, almost worried. God, he wants to melt into the floor. He would be even more mortified, but the fact is, their group’s dynamic’s always been like this with the exception of Derek and Jackson. Secrets have always been scarce between all of them, “Like, you’re not a virgin?”

“Um, I’m definitely not a virgin, but thanks for your concern,” He tries to ignore the heat building up in his cheeks, “It means a lot.”

Allison narrows her eyes at his sarcasm.

“God, I bet you always get to pick up hot people in the city,” Lydia groans in distress, sounding every bit like the drama queen she is, “Especially _models_ , what the fuck. Do models even hook up with each other normally? Or is that unprofessional?”

“No, they definitely do,” Stiles says, thinking back on all the times he’s found his colleagues in compromising positions. Not bad enough to get kicked out of a gig or anything, but still, he has no doubts in his mind that they took it further when they were finally alone, “Fashion Week, especially.”  

“Oh my _god_ ,” Allison says, scandalized.

"Take me next year,” Lydia demands, going over to cut up the banana bread. Everyone’s finished except for Stiles, and he has to mentally remind himself to speed up his eating. At least he can blame his pace on talking too much.

“Wait, so were you like hooking up with someone every night?” Scott asks. Stiles swears, they’re all like gossiping old ladies. Someone just needs to bring out the yarn next. Lydia even baked _banana bread_ , for fuck’s sake.

“Normally I do, but not this year, no,” Stiles says, “I was sick, so.” His voice trails off and it becomes silent.

Derek starts talking, for the first real time all night, “I was sick too, these last couple of weeks. So was Isaac.”

Probably not with the same afflictions, but Stiles appreciates the sentiment. Fortunately enough, Lydia goes, “Oh my _god_ , that was horrible…” And they all keep talking again while Stiles cuts up a slice of banana bread and gets to work on it. He rips off one little piece at a time and chews it for way longer than necessary, trying in vain to listen in on the conversation. In the course of a couple of seconds, he’s almost deflated in energy and motive. Right now he kind of just wants to lie in bed and not do anything.

He feels someone’s eyes on him, and looks past Scott and Lydia and Allison all talking to see Derek watching him intently. It makes him feel uncomfortable, but his heart also flutters a bit in his chest. Or maybe that’s just his erratic heartbeat, as he’s learned is one of the morbid side effects of having an eating disorder.

He’s still not used to thinking about applying that term to himself. It’s strange.

They don’t talk much about Stiles for the rest of the night, instead catching him up on all that’s been happening in Beacon Hills. Which isn’t actually much. Stiles remembers what a shock it was to him when he moved to the city. There were people _everywhere_. Now, he definitely prefers the fast pace of New York or L.A. over his small hometown.

Here, everyone knows everyone, which can be a blessing or a curse. One small mistake can stay with you for the rest of your life, if you don’t leave. It’s also hard for people to get much of anywhere in their careers. There’s no chance of making it big in any industry here. Stiles, admittedly, was incredibly lucky to get to where he is now, but his chances would’ve been absolutely zero if he’d stayed. It’s an alright place to grow up, and to start a family, he supposes.

He loves the city, though. It’s a bit overwhelming in comparison, but he loves how it’s always alive and humming with energy.

"It’s getting late,” Allison says absently to Scott, “We should probably go, babe.” A look at the clock tells Stiles that hours have passed, but his nerves have faded completely.

“I should be going, too,” Lydia stretches in her seat, “I’ll text you all the details of the get-together next week. I was telling Stiles that I think it should be a barbecue, just because summer’s officially over and we should celebrate the last of the heat. Maybe we could do a movie or something afterwards?”

The others agree that this is a good idea, because they all haven’t hung out together like that since everyone was in high school. Between the awkward dance Stiles and Derek were performing around each other, and everyone’s interfering jobs and commitments, it was impossible to. Not to mention Stiles always came when he knew everyone would be busiest, just so that he could have some down time to himself in between visits.

Before he knows it, Allison and Scott are hugging him goodbye, and so is Lydia, saying she’ll text him first to see when he’s available next week. The words _doctor’s appointment_ and _therapy_ are fortunately unsaid, but they linger behind her words. She kisses him on the cheek before following the other two outside.

Derek, for some reason, seems reluctant to leave, and Stiles has to refrain from running away. He could tell all night that Derek wanted to say something to him, his glances full of intent. He already knows this encounter’s going to be painfully awkward for them both, as Derek’s absolutely shit at saying important things and talking about feelings and Stiles is no longer the sort of person to fill the silence with meaningless chatter.

"I’m sorry,” Derek says, almost just as Stiles opens his mouth, “For everything.”

The fool just _stands_ there, like that was a completely interpretable sentence.

“For…?” Stiles clarifies. This is officially worse than the doctor’s this afternoon, and that’s saying something.

“For breaking your heart,” The stupid, stupid man across from him says, much more eloquent and firm than Stiles remembers him ever being a few years ago, “For not apologizing before. For not trying to see you and make things right, when I could have.”

"I avoided you on purpose,” Stiles says, just to make him stop talking. He can see the way Derek’s eyebrows raise for half a second before he barrels on.

“Still. I should have tried to see you,” He holds his ground.

God. “I guess. I don’t know, Derek. You broke up with me. You don’t have to explain yourself or anything.”

He’s been through this conversation hypothetically, a thousand times over in his own head. In all of his scenarios, he was definitely not this calm. He was angry, so so angry, but there’s none of the boiling emotion he thought there’d be. He just feels numb.

Stiles is lying, though. He _wants_ Derek to explain himself, to take him through everything that he was thinking that night and the nights leading up to it. To tell him _why_. It’s been years, and he still hasn’t gotten an answer. He should get an award of some sort for being so patient.

"I _know_ ,” Derek sounds anguished, “But I’m still sorry that I hurt you. And I don’t want things to be weird between us.”

“I need you to go,” Stiles says abruptly, suddenly finding it of extreme importance to be alone, “I have to call someone in a couple of minutes. I didn’t realize it was so late.”

He ignores Derek's expression as he leaves, noticing right after his car starts up that the carved out watermelon is still sitting on the counter. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit guys this chapter was a pain in the ass, i literally chipped away at this for weeks and months on end and i would usually only get through a few sentences before my motivation was wrung dry or my shitty internet cut out/my shitty laptop froze. fortunately i finished before my winter break ended, like i told myself i would. i hope you like it? im so sorry to keep you all waiting 
> 
> (also, guess who changed format halfway through?! me. i want to try and experiment and see if i like this way better)

  
Stiles decides to actually stick to his word and phone somebody, just to pass the time and to see what’s been going on in the world that he left behind. He clears the kitchen table and checks to make sure his dad is still watching TV in his room before going into his own. The silence is somewhat reminiscent of his apartment in New York, but he’s glad to have his father nearby this time around.

  
Unsurprisingly, he calls Cara. Surprisingly, she picks up. He had expected a game of phone tag as the best possible outcome. It’s a bit hard to mask his surprise, at first, and she laughs. They engage in small talk for about a minute or so before cutting to the chase.

  
“So? How are you?” Cara finally inquires. She’s in a quiet place, her apartment, probably. She also sounds very tired. It’s easy to forget that she’s human sometimes, with her vivacious personality and the pedestal she’s been put on. He likes this Cara the best, the one that comes out when nobody else is around.

  
“I’m okay,” Stiles sighs, giving up on pacing the room to flop on his childhood bed, “Kind of going crazy here though, to be honest. It’s … everything’s smaller than I remembered.” He knows for a fact that the actress can’t relate. She was practically born into royalty by Beacon Hills standards, growing up in one of the wealthiest districts in the world. He doesn’t even know if she’s ever been to or stayed in a small town.

  
“It’s only been a couple days,” She says wisely, “It always takes you a bit longer to adjust each time you visit. How’s _outpatient rehabilitation_?” Her tone is slightly teasing, but it’s easy to sense true curiosity and concern underneath.

  
“Well, the compromise is that I go to both the doctor and a therapist once a week,” Stiles explains, already feeling sorry for himself, “But they say that if I miss appointments or lose any more weight then I’ll have to do an actual outpatient program, and an inpatient one after that if it keeps getting worse.”

  
After a long pause, Cara says, “That’s not so bad.”

  
“It’s not,” He agrees, reluctantly, “But it’s still pretty bad. I had to go to the doctor for the first time today. _Anyways_ ,” He continues, because he can sense her about to ask questions that he doesn’t want to answer, “How’s it going over there?”

  
“Annie’s mad again,” He can practically see her sour expression, “I dunno. I think our relationship may not work out.” It must be a very real possibility if she’s actually admitting it.

  
Oh, “Oh.”

  
“Yeah.”

  
Now she’s the one clamming up, and it’s silent for several seconds as he tries to figure out what to say, “I’m sorry. That sucks.” They’ve been together for a long time. For years, now. Sorry doesn’t even begin to cover the pity he feels for her, but he doesn’t know what else to say. They always seemed to balance each other out, and it’s strange to think of a Cara without an Annie to reign her in when she gets overzealous, to act as the quiet counterpart.

  
“Both of our lives aren’t exactly the greatest right now,” She murmurs, “I think I might come see you. I miss you already.”

  
Yeah, right. It took her months to remember he existed again, after they’d been supposedly best friends, “Okay.”

  
“I mean it,” She insists at the skepticism in his tone, “I know that I was shitty for a while, but being back with you in New York and Italy made me realize how good of a friend you are to me. And now hopefully we’ll both be actors together, so. That’ll mean more time for us to hangout again.”

  
He can’t stay mad at her for too long. She’s a good person, always has been, and it wasn’t her fault that her ambitions and career conflicted with her various friendships. But it still stings a little bit, that she’s treating their friendship somewhat like an investment for their careers.

  
“I can’t even leave Beacon Hills, though. Not for a few weeks, at least. No one trusts me to take care of myself.”

  
“I don’t trust you either,” Cara says, “But that’s okay. I’ll come visit you. You’ve told me so much about your hometown, I want to see it in person.”

  
He laughs just at the mental image of her showing up and realizing that there’s no Starbucks or boutiques, “Okay. I’ll let you, I think.” Beacon Hills is extremely out of the way from anywhere, so if she ends up coming at all Stiles will be impressed.

  
“Awesome. I’ll text you the details. Do you want me to come sooner or later?”

  
“Later, probably,” Stiles decides, “I’m a mess right now, and the less people that see me like this, the better.”

  
She saw him in the fucking _hospital_ , in a flimsy gown with a feeding tube and catheter, but he just decides to hold his ground on this one. Luckily, Cara doesn’t argue, just tells him to text her and that she’ll visit whenever works best for him.

  
He lets himself think about the idea of her coming for a couple of minutes. Everyone in the town would freak out, most certainly. Stiles returning to stay with his father for a bit is one thing, _Cara_ _Delevingne_ is something on a whole different spectrum. Surely, the pack will want to meet her and ask her for embarrassing stories about him. He has no doubt in his mind that Cara will want to do the same. She’s always been weirdly fascinated about Stiles having a community and a life outside of modeling, when she tended to mix all aspects of her life together. Maybe this visit will be refreshing for her, too.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, Lydia comes on her own to hang out. Nothing good is on TV except for a cooking show, and upon a minute or two of watching an immediate decision is made that it’s essential to replicate the complicated dish blossoming on screen. They go to the grocery store and return an hour later with a plethora of different obscure ingredients, some of which Stiles has never even heard of. 

“So, this eating thing,” Lydia says bluntly, because she’s always been straight to the point. Her face is stern, “How bad is it? Because in the news it seems a little bad, and from you it seems not that bad at all, so I’m just wondering what’s the truth.” She takes the keys from him and opens the door so that he and all of their purchases can make it through safely.

  
He considers the question. A portion of his brain still feels like he got trapped here for no reason, that he’s completely fine and everybody else is just overreacting. But a bigger part, the part influenced by his dad and Cara and the doctors, knows that his eating habits are a big deal.

  
“It’s not exactly good,” He admits, unwilling to look her in the eye while he unloads the plastic bags, “I hate eating. And they had to put me on a feeding tube in the hospital. But I’m not about to, like, _die_ or anything.”

  
“That’s still pretty bad,” She observes, faux-casual, “But okay. I’m just happy you’re home, finally. And if that means I have to take a leave of absence from work to make sure you’re okay and eating, I’ll do it.”

  
“You definitely do not have to do that.”

  
“I’m starting to get sick anyways,” She blatantly lies, “I’m going to get pneumonia at this rate. So yes, I do have to. For my sake.” She doesn’t even bother to try and fake a cough.

  
“You’re stupid.” She’s not stupid. He loves her for caring, and for not making a big deal about his uncomfortable situation. They spend the rest of the time cooking, and she makes him taste test their final product, which ends up being not as bad as he thought it’d be. It’s bad for him, because it means they have to actually eat it, but Lydia consults the nutrition plan in their drawer and discreetly measures out a good portion for him. He sees it, and she knows he sees it, but it's the thought that counts.

  
“I’ll see you next week?” She asks, when they finish eating. She grabs her purse, “Probably earlier, actually, because I’m still super sick and need to take time off of work.”

  
“Yeah, of course.”

  
Lydia leaves, and he’s alone again.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles drives himself to his first therapy session, jittery and all sorts of nervous. His anxiety’s spiralled out of control in the last couple of days, and he goes to extreme lengths today to make sure no one will recognize him. He takes the long route, through back roads and a different part of town, donning shades and nondescript clothing. The office building’s got multiple businesses packed inside of it, so he doesn’t panic too much about going inside, but sitting in the waiting room is hard. There’s a large sign near him announcing that he, Stiles Stilinski, is sitting in a therapist’s office.

  
He taps his fingers against his phone, too on edge to text anybody or scroll through his notifications. Luckily, there’s only one other person in there with him, an oblivious woman who’s perusing a fashion magazine. His heart nearly stops when she comes to a spread with him on it, sprawled out with very little clothing on and surrounded by other models in similar wear. She doesn’t so much as blink, just flips to the next page, and he finds that he can breathe again.

  
The receptionist gives him papers to fill out and sign. He does all of the easy stuff first, signing his name and writing down all of his basic information. But then he turns to the next page, and it gets hard. He has to rate things like _suicidal_ _thoughts_ and _self_ _harm_ _urges_ from 1 to 10, and it gets almost impossible for him to pick up his pen. He doesn’t belong here, he’s not _this_ fucked up.

  
Thank god, the other woman’s called up to the front desk before him, so no one else is in the waiting room when an assistant comes out with a clipboard and says, “Mr. Stilinski? We’re ready for you.”

  
He tries to form a smile, but his lips are numb. Instead, he just nods and follows the other man through a labyrinth of hallways and closed doors. They finally make it to the office in question, and the assistant does nothing more than smile and knock before he leaves.

  
The woman behind the desk seems kind and immediately insists upon meeting that Stiles call her Katha. She asks him if it’s alright for her to record the conversation, so that she can review it later, and he agrees a little reluctantly. The idea of having evidence of his therapy session makes his heart crawl up his throat, but he doesn’t want to sound like a dick. It’s not like somebody could leak his therapy tapes anyways. He’s being paranoid.

  
“So, Stiles,” She says. Her office is decorated with various music posters and faded decorations. Lots of beads and throw pillows with crudely made pillowcases. He almosts expects her to lecture him on free trade vs fair trade, but she instead looks through the papers he filled out in the waiting room. He takes a seat on the sofa opposite her workspace.

  
“You’ve filled out that you aren’t dealing with any suicidal thoughts, urges to self harm, or anger issues,” She murmurs to herself, scanning through the lists, “So it seems that most of your problems lie in having anxiety and your eating disorder. Have you been formally diagnosed with an anxiety disorder?”

  
“No,” He twists his fingers, “I haven’t been.”

  
“Can you describe some of your symptoms to me?” She prods him gently.

  
Part of him doesn’t want to, but then he thinks about how much easier it could be with medication, and if she actually knows what she’s dealing with. Already, he can tell it won’t be easy to hide things from her, and that any secrecy will end up with a lot of work to cover it on his part.

  
“Well, my job causes a lot of anxiety on its own,” Stiles twists his fingers, “So I don’t know how much of it is that and how much of it is just me.”

  
He tells her about his panic attacks, his sleepless nights spent worrying and the way he throws up before big shows (although that may just be his bulimic tendencies).

  
It doesn’t take much to get her convinced that he needs to be put on medication.

  
“We’ll start off with a light dose, about half a tablet per day of this brand,” She hands him a prescription note with a brand name that’s impossible to look at without headache, “Try to take it at the same time everyday, I would suggest doing it right before you go to bed. I’m going to warn you, it does come with unpleasant side effects. From what you were telling me it seems like your case isn’t mild, but the dosage still won’t be as strong as if it were severe because of your current state of health. You will feel definitely experience nausea, but the rest of the symptoms can be circumstantial depending on the patient. One side effect that does concern me with this medication is possible weight gain or loss. I don’t want this medication to affect your treatment and interfere with your diet, so I’m going to call your doctor and nutritionist to get the okay before I ask you to go pick up the medication. I’ll call you to tell you the course of action sometime tomorrow, if that’s alright.”

  
“Sounds perfect,” Stiles nods. He doesn’t know if he’s okay with being on medication or not. He knows that some celebrities and some of his friends, like Cara, were morally against medication and preferred to work out their problems naturally, with therapy and exercise. But if medicine gets him where he wants to be faster, he’s not going to try and make life harder for himself.

  
“So we still have a couple minutes left of this trial appointment,” Katha says, “I want to get to know you, Stiles. And I want to be able to understand your situation, and then talk about everything that’s happened in the last few weeks. Your father sounded frantic when he was talking to me on the phone.”

  
Stiles winces. It sounds exactly like something his dad would do.

  
“Yeah, well,” He searches for something to say that doesn’t sound like he’s ticking off a to-do list, “I don’t know if my dad told you, but I model,” He doesn’t want to say _I_ _don’t_ _know_ _if_ _you’ve_ _seen_ _me_ _on_ _the_ _news_ , because that sounds arrogant even inside his own head, “My job takes me all over the globe and I always have to lose weight for it. With the level where I was at, it was about as stressful as it gets in the industry.”

  
“You’re a very high-profile figure,” Katha agrees without judgment or awe, “I was a bit worried when I realized who my client was going to be. From what I understand, you’re under a lot of pressure almost constantly. I can’t imagine what that’d be like, and I must confess I have little experience in dealing with it.”

  
He only hopes that she can actually help him out in his situation, but he can't just  _ask_ that.

  
“It’s … hard,” He agrees, for lack of better words, “I’ve made a lot of friends who are really good to me, but it’s horrifying having the whole world watch your every move. I feel like I always have to be perfect and look perfect and act perfect, and I forget that it can be okay to act like myself.”

  
She jots down some notes.

  
“So would you say that you have two separate personalities that you put on?” She asks him, and he nods, “How does your real personality differ from your public one? Do you feel safe letting your guard down around friends and family, or just your father?”

  
“Well, my public persona was created by my publicist and my manager,” Stiles explains what was told to him in some dingy office a few years ago, “Basically, they had to come up with a personality for me that would make me the most successful in my career. It wasn’t really labelled as one thing, more like the things I was supposed to do.”

  
He told to party and to make friends with other celebrities his age, to rub elbows with the elite and look perfectly at ease while doing it. He was allowed to come out, thank god, because then he was seen as a progressive figure and his voice would be able to reach a larger audience. Mostly, though, he was portrayed as a sort of rebel, which is probably the best phrase for it. He wore leather jackets and skinny jeans, but he also posed in floral prints and more feminine wear for different shoots. It was an extremely orchestrated sort of freedom.

  
He tells her all of this, stumbling with words and sounding not half as professional as his publicist, “At home, though, I’m just me, I guess. I don’t really know how to describe it, but.”

  
She nods.

  
“Your father told me that you had a sudden personality change right as you went off to college. If you’re comfortable with telling me, what caused the personality change? It would help me a lot to know if this was when your eating disorder began, because it seems like there was a shift in your life that affected you greatly.”

  
Stiles laughs, albeit a little bit bitterly. How can he even begin to explain? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know next to nothing about eating disorders. i have one friend who was treated in an out of state facility for an eating disorder, but we arent close. i have almost no experience in this subject, and if anyone wants to email me at maisiedaisies@gmail.com with information on eating disorders, I WOULD APPRECIATE IT SO MUCH!!! thank you!

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you think!


End file.
